The Act We Can't Escape

Ava knew the dress was too tight. That was the f*****g point. Velvet black, strapless, dangerous. It clung to her like a dare, one thigh exposed, one slip away from scandal. Her mother would have had a stroke. Perfect. She hadn’t worn it to be liked. She wore it to be worshipped or feared, nothing in‑between. It wasn’t vanity; it was war‑paint. This wasn’t a date, it was a performance, and she no longer lost control on stage. Not since Liam. The bruise he left still bloomed somewhere she couldn’t reach, a private reminder that softness costs blood. She walked into the restaurant like she hadn’t cried in the shower an hour earlier. Like she hadn’t stared at her reflection and wondered if tonight would be another disaster on the growing list. Chin high, she smirked at the maître d’, letting her hips sway with cruel precision. Untouchable. That was the goal. Inside, the air was too clean, too expensive. Crystal clinked in the distance. Every table hosted a couple pretending they liked each other. At the corner waited her fate. Garrett Blake. Everything she hated: white teeth, white privilege, white collar. Hair slicked back like a nineties fraternity reboot. Cologne that clung like cheap aftershave hidden in a designer bottle, invading her senses before his words did. He stood and kissed her hand as if they were in a Regency drama. “You look… wow.” Of course he said wow. Ava forced a smile, the kind that made men uncomfortable if they stared too long. She sat, crossed her legs, let the slit flash just enough to set off alarms. Not for him. Never for him. For power. The waiter arrived. Garrett ordered without asking. “Red for the lady.” She tilted her head, eyes half‑lidded. “Is it poisoned?” He laughed under his breath, confused. She sipped the wine anyway, tasting it like blood. Then came the flex: Yale, Harvard Med, a fellowship with a twelve‑syllable name, a golf trophy mentioned three times. He spoke in acronyms and brand names, every sentence a LinkedIn endorsement. A boat named Momentum, because, he said, boats should inspire hustle. She nearly laughed the wine through her nose. He flicked a glance at his platinum watch and smirked. "Tesla's out front, matte black, carbon rims." Ava nodded at the right beats while planning her exit: ducts, window, fire alarm, fake emergency call. Anything beat hearing about his grindset and cold plunges. Her phone buzzed under the table. Zoe 💀 How’s the date going? Ava Like dental surgery, without anesthesia. Zoe 💀 Abort mission. Do not let this man spread his DNA. Zoe 💀 Want me to unleash the cavalry or fake a grandma collapse? Ava Give me five. If I’m not out, start the apocalypse. Ava pressed her lips to her knuckles, hiding a smile. Zoe 💀 He looks like the kind of guy who thinks foreplay is explaining crypto. “Something funny?” Garrett asked, brow c****d. “Just work,” Ava replied, locking the screen. “Client drama. I’m on call.” “You okay?” he pressed. “I’m allergic to boredom.” He chuckled like she had performed a trick. “You’re feisty.” God, she wanted to stab something. He launched into another epic: an ex obsessed with him, women who couldn’t handle rejection. Ava studied her wine, the linen, the exit sign. Her soul itched to bolt. Glass half‑empty, patience bone‑dry. “I need the restroom,” she said, standing. Garrett lurched to his feet, hovering as if he might follow. “I’ll manage,” she said, already turning. He blinked as she walked away. Cold air bled from the revolving door. She wasn’t coming back. f**k the date, f**k her mother, f**k men who mistake interruption for charm. Phone halfway up, the corridor hushed. Restaurant chatter faded behind heavy doors, and she crashed into a wall of muscle. Hard. Unyielding. Large hands bracketed her waist, heat seeping through velvet. “Careful,” a low voice murmured, precise and polite only on the surface. Ava looked up. Breath stalled. Nathan Hale. Tailored charcoal suit, dark hair combed back, stubble like sin. Steel‑grey eyes dissected her in one drag. Calm. Too calm. Fuck. “The universe hates me,” she muttered. Nathan tipped his head. “Ava Martinez.” Still controlled, still lethal. “What a coincidence,” she said, voice less steady than planned. She stepped back on instinct. He didn’t move. His gaze travelled the dress, slow and certain, as if memorising what he would peel off later. “You remember,” he said. “Unfortunately. You’re the asshole who spent half a corporate party undressing me with your eyes while pretending ignorance.” His jaw flexed. “I knew your name.” “Didn’t stop the statue act.” “You were dating my junior associate.” “You didn’t care.” Silence swelled, thick and electric. “You wore a red dress,” he said, voice lower. “Backless. Your hand never left your drink. You smiled at everyone but me.” Ava’s pulse tripped. “The last time I saw you was two years ago, you dropped off files and told me I looked like a man who drinks scotch with lawsuits.” She arched a brow. “Was I wrong?” “No.” A faint smile. “You weren’t.” “And you? Blind‑date hell as well?” He nodded once. “My sister’s bright idea.” “She thinks dinner cures emotional constipation?” “Seems so.” Her heart kicked faster. “You should go back,” she muttered. “So should you.” Before she could answer, a shout cut in. “Ava!” Garrett, flushed and panting, rage blooming. “You just left, what the hell?” He grabbed her arm. Mistake. Nathan stepped forward, voice glacial. “Take your hand off her.” Garrett froze. Ava jerked free. Thrill and annoyance flared in her ribs. “You’re embarrassing yourself,” she snapped, voice cutting glass. “This is a work contact, Garrett. Not that it concerns you.” Garrett sputtered and stormed off. Nathan watched him vanish, then turned back to her. “I didn’t need rescuing,” she muttered. . “You didn’t stop me.” Her pulse hammered, half resentment, half reluctant safety. Why does danger feel safer than boredom? “You always act like a bodyguard with a superiority complex?” “Only when I see something worth guarding.” Stomach dipped. She despised the flutter. “Is that a line?” “I don’t do lines.” “Right, just judgments and death stares.” He stepped closer; their shadows merged. “I watch when I want something. I judge when I already know I’ll get it.” The corridor cooled. Her lungs stuttered. His scent, clean, dark, expensive, wrapped around her. “You’re arrogant.” “I’m right.” “Maybe I’m just making sure you’re not about to ruin my night.” He tipped his head. “Still with the junior associate?” Spine straightened. “No. That ended.” Satisfaction flashed in his eyes. “Shame,” she said, dry. “Loss of your staring licence.” “I never needed one.” The way it landed in her chest hurt and thrilled at once. “You study your enemies often?” “Only the ones worth learning.” “Then study harder.” She pivoted, pulse pounding, refusing to look back. “I’m leaving.” “Pity.” No answer. She walked. At the corner she glanced. He was still there, tracking her like unfinished business, pupils dark with intent.